


Annie

by ClementineStarling



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Abuse, F/M, First Time, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Superstition, dubcon, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annie falls for Gisborne even though she knows he’ll be her ruin…</p><p>My explanation of how a common kitchen maid came about to say of her relationship with Gisborne „If I were of position, I’d be his wife.“ (episode 1.04 „Parent Hood“)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Annie

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Энни](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486707) by [Cara2003](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cara2003/pseuds/Cara2003)



> Breaking news: [RHfan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RHfan/pseuds/RHfan) has translated [this fic into Russian](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3486707). I could not be more honoured. Thank you so much for your efforts!  
> __
> 
> This time poor Guy isn’t the victim but the perpetrator – because, I’m inclined to add, it’s not slash but het fiction. So prepare to see Gisborne as the abusive and manipulative bastard he actually is in 1.04 Parent Hood. Without restraints or compassion or qualms he’s trampling over all of Annie’s boundaries, careless of the havoc he wreaks on the girl. 
> 
> Guessing from the lack of reactions to [my take on Gisborne/Vaisey](http://archiveofourown.org/works/772633) in relation to the number of hits, I feel urged to add some comments on the topic of non-con-stories, particularily because this one is a het pairing on top of it all. The narrative of het stories often tends to be problematic for quite a lot of reasons that perhaps can be summarised as reproduction of gender stereotypes and even the normalisation of sexual violence. It’s against any and every political, progressive, emancipatory, feminist conviction one can think of. (I’m thinking about reactivating my fallow livejournal for musings like that…)
> 
> Believe me, I’ve already got a good scolding for my ‘tale’, by friends and by my superego, and quite rightly so, I might add. I still feel a little guilty but guilty pleasure is the best, says Dr. Freud (or at least my mental version of him does).  
> And after all, you can’t influence what you’re turned on by. This is not real and it’s not supposed to be. 
> 
> So, welcome to my little ~~rape~~ ravishment fantasy...
> 
> Another quick warning:  
> In Annie’s vivid and superstitious imagination the whole story turns a little AU.  
> I hope you forgive me for tampering with the canon. ;-)
> 
>  **On the question: How noncon is this fic?**  
>  Essentially this is rape and sexual abuse, even if it develops into a kind of twisted relationship. Please do not read if you’re bothered by that! If it helps: From my side it's intended to be more of a _ravishment_ than an actual rape-fic; it's not entirely unpleasant. If you have further ideas on these notes, let me know!  
>  ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When he takes her for the first time, she is afraid.  
She knows it is probably her own fault she has drawn attention to herself. She should not have stared at him, should have lowered her eyes like a good girl. But she could not help it for he is beautiful as Lucifer himself. And now that he has noticed her, who is she to deny him? She is only a kitchen wench and he is her master; he can do as he pleases.

Besides she is more than flattered by his interest, for she has dreamt about this moment countless times, wide awake and fast asleep, ever since she has seen him for the first time, a sombre knight in black leather, temptation incarnate. And so she does not fight him as he pulls her onto his lap, late one evening, when he is drunk, and all too willingly she lets him kiss her. It’s the strangest of sensations, his soft and lascivious lips on her mouth, the tongue slipping past her teeth, the sharp sting of stubble on her delicate skin. He is not exactly gentle but when he pulls back, she is panting and flushed.

„Tell me your name, fair maiden“, he demands, running his thumb across her lower lip, swollen from his kisses. His voice works a spell of its own; it is luring and deep and husky and it’s mesmerising her. Like the warmth of a fire, it spreads over her skin and pools in her belly, an unknown, sinful heat and she blushes even more.

„Annie, me Lord“, she whispers, her eyes downcast. And she can feel his stare and imagines him to see right through her to the bottom of her wanton soul.

„Annie“, he repeats. The sound of her name is enough to make her shiver with anticipation. His large hand, rough from handling a sword, traces the rise of goose bumps on her flesh. Soothingly it caresses her shoulder, her neck, her chin, then tilts her head upwards. It holds her firmly in place as his lips descend on hers again, sucking all doubt from her mind. It keeps her still, while his tongue ravishes her mouth and his other hand continues exploring her body. Embarrassment is mixing with excitement when his fingers find her naked breast under her dress and she gasps as he pinches her nipple.

Her reaction is rewarded with a low chuckle. „Do you like that, little Annie?“, he purrs into her ear and again, his voice crawls over her skin and she can’t decide anymore if she shudders with fright or with arousal.

But then his hand wanders further, glides lower, under her skirts, up her thigh. The nearer it gets to her core, the more she tenses under his touch.  
„Shhhhh“, he says in his voice as golden as honey. „I won’t hurt you.“

And as if to belie his words, his teeth are a little too sharp as he nips the tender skin of her neck. It is then that she finally realises that this is not a game, that he won’t stop until he’s had his way with her and her stomach cramps with anxiety. All of sudden, the arms around her appear as unyielding as rock, and his eyes as cold as a blade. And she remembers the tears of other girls and newly-weds and wives of years and their vain attempts to hide the bruises on skin and soul. For women of low birth, love is rarely an affair of flowers and sweet kisses. And she steels herself for his assault.

But much to her amazement, when he feels her stiffening, he removes his hand from between her legs. Instead he playfully entwines his fingers with hers, his thumb drawing circles on the palm of her hand. It’s an affectionate, soothing gesture and she relaxes a little. He takes her hand, which is so much smaller than his, and places it over his heart. She feels it beating under smooth skin and hard muscle, so fierce she wonders why it does not burst open the ribcage.  
As he looks at her from hooded, shadowed eyes, iris bright as a clear summer’s day, there is a softness in his gaze she’d never deemed him capable of. His dark hair is tangled and messy and he suddenly appears so young, nearly innocent. She can’t believe the thought entered her mind, but there it is.

„See what you do to me?“, he says and his eyes do not leave hers, not even for a blink, as he guides her hand over his chest, over the flat of his belly to his loins where his cock impatiently pushes against the leather of his breeches. His lips open in a silent moan when her fingers brush over his erection.

It is a moment of magic, a moment when the stories of her childhood come back to her. The tales of the creatures of old, falling in love with mortal men, and the fate of Gisborne, the village by the rushing brook, that was reclaimed by the woods for the sins of its inhabitants. She remembers the myth of a babe in a cradle born on a midsummer’s day, half human, half… not. And she shudders.

But the flesh is still warm under her fingertips and pulsing with life and his scent, spicy and sweet, is ensnaring her senses. This is temptation as she has never known it and her resistance is already fading. Even worse, her treacherous body craves for his touch.

He still looks at her, a tint of summer meadow in his eyes. Pixie green her grandma used to call it.

„Will you have me, Annie?“, he asks, probably only in her imagination, but then, who knows? There are creatures that cannot cross a threshold unless invited to and perhaps he’s one of them. However it is, she is willing to let him in and she nods her agreement. In this wonderful, magic moment, she does not care that she might just have sealed her downfall, that every one of his kisses is a step on the road of perdition. If her ruin is the price for his embrace, she is prepared to pay it.

Later, she cannot really recall how she got into his chambers. Everything has happened so fast. Lifting her like she weight nothing he carried her away, through dark passageways and over steep staircases into the bowels of Nottingham castle, until finally, he put her down on his bed.

Annie never has seen the inside of a noble’s bedroom though she has heard gossip and rumours and for once they do not seem to have been exaggerated. She marvels at the wooden panelling, the rich tapestries, the masterful carving of the massive bed frame. So this is where he dwells in his free time, on pillows and cushions and furs soft as clouds, a realm of sleep and dreams and wonder.

While she admires the room, he gets out of his heavy boots and the leather breeches, until he’s only clad in his black tunic. It falls loosely from his broad shoulders, scarcely revealing the shape of his body. But she already knows what the linen hides, has already felt the muscle of his chest and arms, hard stomach and slim hips. And her breath catches in her throat when he lowers himself onto the bed. He crawls over her like a big cat, pushing her thighs apart with his legs before he settles between them. They are only separated by two layers of cloth now, smooth expensive linen and simple brown wool.

He kisses her, hot-mouthed and passionate, whilst his right hand slips under her skirts again.  
„Good girl“, he murmurs as he finds her damp with desire.

This time she tries to stay calm yet despite all resolution, she can’t help but flinch when one of his fingers pushes past the silky folds and delves into her wetness. It feels strange and intrusive and paralysing and her pupils dilate with shock. She looks up at her Lord to see him smiling, a lewd and sly smile, but also full of approval. This goes faster than she can handle, though, unlike before, he does not retreat at her signs of discomfort. On the contrary, a second finger follows the first, stretching her, spreading her open. His smile widens at the distress in her eyes and – somewhat detached – she observes how the shadows dance over his features. They find the hollows of his cheeks, the circles under his eyes. They even draw a cruel line around his mouth, a sneer she could have sworn had not been there just a moment before.

„Now, now“, he whispers into her ear, breath searing hot, „don’t be afraid, little one. You’ll like it, I promise.“  
He shifts slightly and replaces his fingers with something much bigger, pushing against her entrance. He slips his tongue into her mouth the same moment his cock is entering her and his lips swallow her gasp of pain and surprise.

She squeezes her eyes shut as he moves within her, smoothing the way with every stroke. He seems to be painfully large in the beginning but after a while she adjusts to his size and the pain fades into unpleasant friction and after some more thrusts, that’s gone too to be replaced by a new, more sensual ache. It’s rooting deep inside her core and every time, his cock pounds into her, it grows and it builds. She imagines her lust to spread glowing tentacles that grip her lower spine and wrap themselves around her thighs. They tingle with fire and leave the skin numb and her head empty. The faster he moves, the more the bliss seems to pull back to its source, much like winding a spring.

*

She learns quickly that, compared to his usual standards, he has been gentle that first time. Their next encounters are brief and brutal, marked by his unrestrained need. There are no sweet kisses or tender words, not even a bed. He uses her when- and wherever he feels a desire to be sated, in dark corners, against rough stone walls and occasionally even on tables in plain sight. He does not mind that everyone can see them, does not care for her whimpers and tears. If anything, it spurs him on. Most of the time he takes her from behind, like a dog fucks a bitch, biting her neck, leaving bruises. Only in the end, when everything is over, he sometimes kisses her nape and shoulders, nearly apologetically. It is a gesture of gratitude which, in her eyes, reveals his deeper feelings for her and helps her enduring the pain and the humiliation, and the loneliness too.

She knows that people are talking and she can’t decide whether to be proud or ashamed of the gossip’s reason. Sometimes she wishes the ground to open and swallow her whole but then, on other occasions, she feels fortunate and elated that she is his and his alone. In the passing moment between sleep and waking, she fancies to think of herself as his woman, his paramour. His whore, they call her on the quiet, but never to her face. They fear Gisborne’s temper, which is why they leave her alone, even evade her when possible. Never draw to close to fire lest you get burnt.

Martha, eldest of the kitchen maids, used that metaphor as a warning when for the first time she noticed Annie’s admiring glances.  
„Girl“, she said, „put that idea right out of your mind. He will be your ruin. He will burn you like hellfire.“  
But Annie bit her lips and said nothing. And still she could not help to be drawn to him like a moth is attracted by flames.

Now she lives for those little moments, when his finger tremble with the feverish attempt to rid her of her clothing, when he thrusts into her with low moans of pleasure, when he shudders his release and slumps against her, gasping and spent and his hot seed is dripping from her sex. Without him, she is empty and life meaningless.

She finds a thousand excuses to escape the kitchens and wander the castle in the hope of their ways to cross, a nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach every time she hears heavy steps and the clinking of armour. When they finally meet in the corridors or the yard and he only glances at her for the fraction of a second before passing, as if they were strangers and did not know each other in the most biblical of senses, disappointment fills her like a bottomless void and she will cry herself to sleep that night. But sometimes she is lucky and the hunger glints in his eyes. And she knows that even if he does not take her there and then, he will come for her as soon as his duties allow.

However it goes, Martha will wait up for her in the servant quarters and take her aside, stroke her hair and offer her solace. She has done so since the beginning, when at the sight of Annie’s first love bites, she pressed a small bag of wild carrot seeds into her hand, accompanied by whispers of advice and warning. Martha never asks questions nor does she judge, she just listens and sometimes she shakes her greying head, sadness in her eyes.

And so the summer passes with days of hope and nights of tears and some hours of bliss squeezed in between.

As the winds grow stronger and the leaves are yellowing, Lord Gisborne’s demeanour softens.  
The constant anger seems to have left him and his smiles are more genuine, benign even. The mocking smirks are gone as is the coldness in his eyes. One evening he puts a late marigold into her hair, laughing when she points out that plucking this particular flower might invoke a thunderstorm.  
„Annie, oh Annie“, he says. „I’ve plucked many a flower and have never been struck by lightning.“ And kissing her, he pushes her up against the wall and enters her with a thrust so forceful it nearly makes her scream.

Another day he offers her money for a new dress since her old one already bears distinct traces of his impatience with clothes. He feeds her food from his table, cheese and grapes and roasted meat and ginger bread, and he gives her wine to drink that is spicy and sweet and goes straight to her head. He even has begun to take some interest in her pleasure. Obviously he feels gratified by her eager reaction to his touch and he studies her closely, intimately, with the fascination of an explorer who discovers ever new territories.

 

Then comes a Sunday, when he takes her back into his bed for the first time since the night he deflowered her. He waits for her after mass to grab her wrist and drag her to his chambers.

„Undress me“, he demands and she obeys. Her hands tremble a little when she unclasps the fastenings of his leather armour. It’s surprisingly heavy when she takes it off his shoulders and it slips from her fingers to the floor.

„Leave it“, he says. Just as always, his voice tugs at something deep inside her, vibrating through an aching hollowness and she dares not look up into his blazing eyes. She fumbles with his tunic instead, growing ever more nervous, and he helps her, by pulling it over his head.

„Boots“, he says when she hesitates, and she kneels to take them off.  
His crotch is only inches from her face and she cannot miss the bulge in his breeches. Nor can she refrain from lifting her hand and rubbing it against his hardness. It’s so exciting to touch him. She’s never done that before and she’s not sure if he’ll approve of her boldness. But when she glances up, the amusement in his smile tells her that she’s allowed to continue. And there is also his cock, twitching under the pressure of her palms, as eager for contact as she is.

As her fingers struggle with the laces of his garment, she begins to understand his impatience with clothes and she is tempted to try to rip them apart. Her intentions must have been mirrored on her expression, because he chuckles at her vain attempts to loosen the leather straps.

His right hand rises to catch her jaw and his thumb traces the line of her lips.  
„My little Annie, ever so wanton“, he purrs when her mouth opens to his touch like a flower to the sun.

At last she succeeds in solving the knot and she reaches into his trousers for her prize. His cock is already swollen and hard under the silky skin. She marvels at the veins that pulse under her fingers with the steady beat of his heart and she wonders how she could ever have been intimidated by his manhood, which now weighs so lovely and tame on her palm.

She gives in to an impulse and leans forward to place a kiss on his engorged flesh and it eagerly twitches in response and Sir Guy moans, low in his throat. It is dark and forbidden but perhaps that’s why she cannot withstand the lure to do it again, to put her mouth to his cock.

Gisborne’s fingers close around hers, to show her what to do. Easing back the skin that hides his cockhead, he bares himself completely to her gaze. Delicate pink and smooth and alien like a strange plant the glans juts from the shaft, a dew drop of precum on its very tip. It’s a sight that awes her, that runs down to her core like jolts of lightning and she can feel her own juices starting to trickle from her depths.

He guides her hand to drag himself across her lower lip, smearing the fluid over it, painting her in his lust. Involuntarily her tongue darts out to taste him, and then all of a sudden, he shoves his cock into her mouth and she tries to recoil from the intrusion but he would not allow it.

„You’ve wanted this all along“, he growls when she struggles and he has to restrain her. „You went down this path and now you must bear the consequences. So stop playing shy on me and go on with it or I’ll have it my way.“ And just as a demonstration he thrusts into her mouth as far as he can, until she gags and retches.

„You would not like that, would you?“, he says, the cruelty light as butterflies in his tone and she shakes her head.

He lets go of her, reining her only by the steel of his eyes, and she begins to suck. Tentative at first, uncertain what to do. But she is a quick learner and soon she understands what kind of power he has granted her. The power to give him such pleasure with the flat of her tongue pressing against his shaft, the friction of her lips, the touch of her hands. The sweetest sounds escape from his mouth, moans and gasps and groans, and she revels in her newly found control over his lust. His hooded eyes are clouded by arousal, when he finally orders her to stop, voice hoarse and crackling with desire.

„Did I not please you“, she asks, shyly but he only laughs.

„Of course you did“, he says, „but it’s not enough to have your mouth on me.“  
As he sheds his breeches and lowers himself onto the bed, Annie realises that never before has she seen him stark naked and a blush is creeping up her cheeks, furious and fiery. Guy of Gisborne is nothing less than beautiful to behold. He is strong and shapely and proud, her saviour and her downfall.

„Strip for me, Annie“, he demands and again the thrall of his voice works its magic.  
She undresses for his greedy gaze, bashful as if he never had her before, as if this were all new and in a way it is. She can now see the effect she has on him, the ragged breathing, the response of his flesh, and she is delighted by it. The wetness between her legs bears testimony to her unprecedented arousal and she is as ashamed of it as she is proud.

„Come here“, Gisborne rasps and she scrambles over him, to straddle him as he orders her to.  
Two of his fingers find their way into her folds and emerge, covered in her juices, glassy and sweet. To Annie’s surprise, Guy raises them to his mouth and sucks off the wetness while he stares at her, eyes dark with need. She gasps soundlessly at the picture and his self-satisfied smirk.

„You taste delicious“, he says before sliding his fingers through her sex again and she moans at the words and the flick of her fingers against her clit and this time, he brings up his hand to her lips and she tastes herself on it.

 _Sweet as sin_ , she thinks and remembers that it’s a Sunday and she’s been to mass only an hour earlier but when he guides her onto his cock all of her qualms shatter and vanish.

She’s never been so ready for him and never so eager.

Her cunt stretched around him, she waits for him to move, but he contents himself for the moment with being buried inside her. Instead of pushing up into her, he runs his palms over her thighs, calluses rough against the tender flesh and she trembles.

Trembles convert into fitful shivers as the hands reach her core and a thumb grazes her most sensitive spot. Her muscles contract, involuntary, squeezing his cock inside her and his smug chuckle turns into an appreciative groan.

He takes his time with her, despite his own hunger, and his fingers are a torment and a delight as they rub and circle and flick. Deeper and deeper they drag her into the heat of hell, to the brink of madness, to a place where she loses control over her body. It’s reduced to a bundle of nerves, straining against his fingertips, swollen and nervous. She shakes and writhes on top of him, around him, on the very edge of release and her whimpers are desperate as he withdraws his fingers, refusing her completion.

„Ride me“, he says and she is too drunken on lust to waste more than a fleeting thought on the wickedness of his demand. He places his hands on her hips to show her what he wants and obediently she lifts herself on her knees till he’s nearly slipping out of her and the grip of his fingers signals her to stop.

They pause like that for a moment, barely one flesh, savouring the anticipation of their union.  
Their breathing is already laboured and shallow and she notices how Guy’s eyes have gone from bright blue to a dark shade of violet. The familiar warmth wells up inside her, only this time she sees the same affection on his face and she’s utterly lost.

Slowly, she lowers herself onto his length, taking him back into her core, where he belongs. They both gasp at the sensation and then she finds a rhythm and she grinds herself down on him, again and again, shameless like a bitch in heat she’s rubbing her sex against him, looking for the right angle, seeking release. He enjoys her fruitless efforts for a while till he takes pity on her, raising two fingers to his mouth, sucking them lewdly, wetting them with his spit until they glisten and shine, before he strokes her again in this most intimate of places. Less gentle than before and so good and so right. Her hands clutch at his chest for leverage, frantically clawing at the skin and Sir Guy only laughs as he jerks his hips, thrusting his cock even deeper inside her and at last she topples over the brink. The waves ripple through her like water, circular billows from her cunt, shudders and shivers and shakes.

Only vaguely she registers his hand tightening on her hips, bruising her with the endeavour of holding back his own orgasm, and he succeeds even though her convulsions tease his swollen flesh to the point of intolerability.

Patiently he waits for her crisis to pass and for the violence of her release to abate, before he rolls them over without breaking their union. He is still inside her, large and thick and hard and her muscles keep on fluttering around him in the aftermath of her climax, and then he moves against her. At first the pressure of his hips is nearly unbearable on the over-sensitive flesh, but then her body yields to the onslaught and the tension between her legs begins to built again, more rapid this time. She rocks against him, against the hardness of his stomach, the scrape of his pubic bones and the thrust of his cock, the feverish onset of another orgasm already crawling over her skin.

He lowers his lips onto hers, his breath scorching and heavy as he licks the small moans and gasps from her mouth, tongue wet and hungry and insatiable. Her heels dig into his sides to urge him on and her hands grasp at his shoulders. This time it seems to take no time at all for her to reach her peak or perhaps her sense of time is drowned out by her ecstasy. Guy has given her pleasure before but not in the least does it compare to the mindless, unspeakable joy she’s experiencing now. The orgasmic surge crashes over her with unexpected force and he is following her in an instant; his pace falters and his body tenses and together they tumble from rapturous heights into oblivion.

Afterwards he pulls her into his arms, and she curls up at his side, under his blankets, breathing in his scent and his warmth and as she watches him sleep she wishes she could freeze time and make this moment her eternal heaven.

*

Perhaps it was then, his seed took root in her.  
Whether or not, the moon runs its course, unperturbed by human affairs, yet after a full circle, still her bleeding will not come, not even when invoked by a concoction of penny royal. She is sick afterwards, for days she feels unwell, but she does not bleed. And while Martha is flustered and grave about it, Annie sees no reason for worry. All she can think of is him, his weight on top of her, the way she twines her legs around his body to drag him closer, how he looks when he sleeps, nearly innocent. Even though she knows that they cannot be married with her being the daughter of a serf and a common kitchen maid, she has started to think of him as her husband now that she’s carrying his child.

But Martha cannot let it go. She’s even referring to the old wives tale she’s sworn never to talk about. Annie knows the story of course. It has been circulating among the servants for as long as she can remember and it never helped distracting her from her interest, on the contrary.

They whispered about his features that are a tad too sharp, a tad too cruel to appear entirely human and about his ears that seem just the tiniest bit too pointy. They murmured about the pallor of his skin and the darkness of his hair and the fact he never seems to be seen without his leather gloves, his leather armour, shielding him from cold iron. They talked about his eyes in which you could see the sky’s reflection, they said: they were bright blue on a clear spring morning and stormy grey on rainy autumn days, pitch black at midnight and on cloudless eves, they shone with starlight. But those were only the little details to a most colourful tale they had spun from myth and rumour.

_It was well known that Gisborne’s father had been a lord’s son from across the sea, who had followed his king to England. Yet Gisborne’s mother, so the story was told, had been no mortal lady, but a princess among the elves. Once upon a time, when the moon had hung on the sky like a fat silver coin they had met and drunken on joy and wine and herbs they had lain together, for just one night of passion. A beauty to rival the stars she had been, that elven queen, and Sir Roger had been lovelorn until, back in the country of his birth beyond the sea, he had met the Lady Ghislane. Rumour had it that she could have been a sister to the elfish woman, fair and graceful and enchanting as she was. He took her as his wife and with him to England where nine month after their wedding day she gave birth to a child._

_And in the small hours of that very night, the moon, round and silvery again, bore witness to what midwives and servant girls would only whisper about on the quiet: A figure, hooded and dark and silent as a ghost, entered the room and with fingers as long as talons ever so gently took the babe from its cradle. And in the morning a newly born boy lay in the cot, sleeping as peaceful as a little angel. And the servants crossed themselves or touched their old pagan amulets and never anyone dared to utter aloud that they were sure it had been a girl that was delivered the night before. They tried to shrug it off as a dream, but since superstition best grows in hush and silence, soon a word went around: Cambion. A creature half demon, half man._

„A fable, that’s all it is“, Annie says when confronted with the tale and she refuses to hear any more about it. Her child might be a bastard but he will be no beast.

And she never thinks about it until the day she learns that he’s been abandoned by his father, her Seth, her child, left in the woods to die. She can’t believe Gisborne to be capable of that, of murdering his own son. He might be a liar and a bad man but still she does not deem him a monster. So there is only one explanation for his behaviour, only one option to make sense: He was to give his son to his people, his true people, the fair folk of the woodlands and meadows. Because that’s what the fae do, abduct your children to raise them as their own in their hidden hills.

Annie shudders every time she thinks about it and she clutches her baby boy tightly during their journey through Sherwood, fearing his kin to rise from the shadows to claim what’s been promised. She never sets foot in a forest after that and it takes her years until she can sleep through a night without waking, full of fear and foreboding…

Yet she never stops dreaming of his body on hers, his weight as delicious as his hardness inside her, the searing breath against her mouth, tongue hot and insistent, the lips feverish.

They say he perished under Nottingham Castle but in her mind he is alive, for she saw him that night in her sleep, heard his last words and the answer out of the dark and she’s seen his lids flutter and the effort it cost him to wrench them open.

_The pitch black had covered him like a blanket, stifling and soft, until the murmur echoed through the ruins, calling out to him through the mist, luring him back to life. A faint touch on his skin and then he blinked into sudden brightness. The light hurt his eyes. Someone leaned over him, holding a torch, the flame like a beacon in the gloom. He couldn’t make out the face against the flare but somehow he was not afraid._  
_„What?“, he asked. It was more of a croak than a word. His vocal cords felt brittle and dry._  
_And the voice repeated the simple phrase that was a promise and like all promises a spell that worked its magic… „Yes, now you are free.“_

She knows he is still out there, perhaps with his kind, roaming the fields and the forest, poising between the worlds like a spirit. And sometimes, when thunder is crackling in the air, she hears his laughter in the wind…


End file.
